


Femme aux Cheveux Rouges

by Smutcutter



Category: Moulin Rouge! (2001)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 21:46:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29285487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smutcutter/pseuds/Smutcutter
Summary: Toulouse would love to be loved.* WORK OF FICTION. NOTHING REAL HERE *A short story about Toulouse. He has always been a favorite artist of mine and the character here from the movie broke my heart. No sex here!
Relationships: Christian/Satine (Moulin Rouge!), Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec/Everyone
Kudos: 1





	Femme aux Cheveux Rouges

Femme aux Cheveux Rouges

Toulouse was tired. The rehearsal has lasted longer than anyone had expected. Satie was tinkering with a tune at the piano with Christian by his side, pen in hand, fingers smudged black. Across the cavernous hall, Satine and four other girls were tilting their heads at odd angles, working out the finale. Satine’s long red curls were swept up sloppily, releasing tendrils down her swan-like neck. The Duke, back ramrod straight in the cafe chair, held his hat and waited with unnerving patience. 

Toulouse watched him carefully. The Duke’s beady eyes darted about the room, finally coming to rest on Satine. His gaze examined her body with the same eagerness as he had chosen the wine to go with dinner. But, Toulouse could see the ever-patient Duke was growing agitated as Satine and Christian were exchanging glances. The tall blond man stood suddenly and purposefully walked towards the dancing redhead.

“My dear Duke!” A deep voice boomed out of nowhere and made everyone jump. Zidler’s pudgy cheeks were flushed as he stepped into the man’s path. “Is there anything you need?”

“Yes.” The Duke sighed petulantly. “Please summon my carriage. Satine and I will be taking our leave.” His eyes bore into Satine. She concealed any panic under a veil of dancer’s sweat.

“I can’t possibly! We have so much more to cover tonight.“ Satine spoke firmly and kept her control in check. She had managed this long to avoid his physical advances, she could do it again. 

The Duke held up a gloved hand to halt her feeble protest. His anger swelled. Yet, as he stepped closer, it seemed to melt like a snowflake on a roaring fire. His eyes softened and his thin lips curled into what was meant to be a gentle smile.

“Such dedication, my precious one. Do try and get some rest though, will you?” He lifted her hand to his dry lips. She smiled.

“Of course. A girl does need her beauty sleep.” She breathed and batted her lashes.

The Duke took his leave and the entire room seemed to exhale. Toulouse dropped his head on the table and closed his eyes.

“Toulouse, wake up.” Satie was shaking him gently. “Time to go.” 

Toulouse lifted his head groggily, brushing sprinkles of sugar from his beard. “One more gwass.” He mumbled and shakily uncorked a new bottle of absinthe. He had no idea how long he slept. Satie just shook his bald head and smirked. 

“I know better than to try and stop you.”

When Satie had left his side, Toulouse looked around the room with focused eyes. He had stopped drinking hours ago and had been sketching wildly on the tablecloth. He wanted to watch - to wait - to see. He was rewarded for his ruse.

Christian slipped behind Satine, his smudged fingers curling around her tiny waist, his lips pressed against her neck. She smiled gently and inclined her head towards him, accepting a chaste kiss.

Toulouse’s stomach lurched. Christian helped Satine on with her coat, shrugged on his own, and they made their way to the door, oblivious to the noisy world around them. People were chattering, gathering up bottles and sheet music. Toulouse slid from the booth, pulled on his own coat, grabbed his hat, and steadied himself on his cane. His eyes wandered again to the happy couple when a voice rasped in his ear.

“What’s a matter, Henri?” Nini was at his back, hunched over, teasing him with baby talk. “Want I should wear a red wig for ya?” She cackled and stood up, hands on her hips. His eyes met with a full glass of absinthe still sitting on the table. He grabbed it and deftly downed it in one gulp. Her voice had split through the din and people fell silent. With this pause, most had turned towards the mean laugh. Nini was scanning the crowd for approval of her jibe, ugly over painted mouth twisted into a horrifying grin.

“My dear,” Toulouse spoke, sniffing loudly as he turned towards her (as his face was near level with her crotch) and screwed up his face. “I first suggest you give the fishmonger his sample back.” Nini’s eyes grew wide in shock. “And fwankly, I wouldn’t do you with his.” His cane indicated a tall Argentinean, who was laughing himself to tears.  
“Why - you - you....” She stammered as Toulouse walked out the door.

He inhaled the damp night, clearing his head. He slowed his pace and watched the others walk to the apartment building across the street. He marveled at the ease they all moved, long legs taking huge strides, hopping over puddles in the street. He did love his friends and his own envy made him smile.

A light, high up, caught his attention. Two shapes passed in front of the golden glow of the lamp. A coat tossed over a chair, the strap of a dress peeled off an alabaster shoulder. Strong muscled arms pulled the delicate female body close. Satine giggled. The figures passed out of sight. The light went out.

Toulouse’s mouth was dry. The lump that had formed in his throat made him unable to speak. Why is my face wet, he thought, odd time of the season for rain. Swiping with annoyance at his tears, he turned and hobbled down the slick cobblestone street, the tapping of his cane echoing on the stone archway.

The stairs were harder to climb tonight. To get his mind off his aching legs, he concentrated on the sounds and smells in the other rooms around him. Meat cooking in a skillet. The sizzle reminded him of a field of cicadas on a June night. The thin, tiny cry of a baby. Then, the soothing murmur of the mother’s sing-song voice. Thick perfume, almost cloying, another female voice humming softly. On this door, Toulouse knocked.

“Entre.” The lilting voice beckoned as he entered. “I was getting worried. You are late tonight.” The cultured English accent scolded playfully. She tossed her long red curls from her shoulder, cascading them over her black lace ensemble. Her delicate hands turned the champagne bottle in the ice bucket. 

Toulouse said nothing as he removed his hat and coat and settled on the settee. From the window, he watched the lights of Paris sparkle. The windmill, in the distance, turned lazily into the night.

A pair of male hands rested on his shoulders, massaging them gently. Then, they unbuttoned his collar, his vest. The dark hair brushed his temple as he felt a soft kiss on his cheek.

“Yea, we goh awl worrieed.” The deep cockney accent made Toulouse blink. He slowly grabbed the boy’s clean hands. Freshly manicured from the money Toulouse had paid him last time, no doubt. The voluptuous female turned and smiled with wide green eyes.

“Georgie! You know thahs wrong. Cultured. Refined.” She drawled in the same vulgar tone.

Toulouse just shook his head, a placating smile on his lips, a tear hidden in his lashes.

“Pwease, both of you. Don’t tawlk tonight.”

FIN


End file.
